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Sunday, September 4, 2016

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Guthrie

Name: Melissa GuthrieGenre: Young Adult Historical FictionTitle: The Shadow of Death

Chapter 1Falmouth, VirginiaJune 21, 1863

Ira Wonsettler was dead.

One moment prior, he was sitting upright in bed, face devoid of color. A tattered blanket, stained with the blood of a multitude of other soldiers lay across his lap. in his right hand he held a revolver.

“Confederate,” Ira said.

Jacob Clemmons leaned his good ear towards Ira. One hand rested on the bed to keep his balance, in the place that Ira’s left leg should have lay. The right one was gone as well.

The voices of a thousand souls seemed to speak all the around them, their voices muddled together.

“War,” the voices said, and “fight. Kill.” Above all, kill. Jacob’s heart beat faster and his mouth went dry. His hands twitched. This was the thick of battle; this was black powder burning his eyes and the ragged voice of the captain screaming orders.

“I said you musta’ stole it from some Reb,” Ira said. He turned the revolver over in his hand and admired the ivory grips.

“Burial detail,” Jacob said. He stood, walked to the end of the tent, and paced back.

The man Jacob had taken the gun from was older than he, his face grizzled with a poor excuse for a beard, with fire red hair. By the time Jacob crossed the field with a spade over his shoulder to separate the Union dead from the Confederates and give his men a decent burial, the man’s fingers were bloated to twice their normal size.

Virginia was hotter than Jacob’s home, back in Ohio. It was special sort of hell reserved for the southerners- the secessionists- that thrived there.

Jacob hadn’t pried the gun from the man’s hands. No, he chopped it loose. He separated the man’s index finger from his hand with a single thrust of his shovel. The bones crunched, satisfying, loud, among the moans of the not yet dead. Those men festered like sores on the earth.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, said the Reverend.

Only a demon would pick over the dead like this, but that thought didn’t stop Jacob.

He was a demon dressed in blue, same as the man in gray he stood over, on the blood soaked land near a town called Chancellorsville. Jacob took the man’s shiny gun. He would take all he could from an enemy that wanted him dead.

The voices outside the tent grew louder. They buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. Jacob slapped himself in the head. The headache there, it didn’t go away. He walked more. He settled his breath. He thought of a beautiful girl in a green dress. His fiancé, Anna.

Run. Escape. Stay. Fight. Kill.

“What’d you want it for?” Jacob asked. He stopped at the end of Ira’s bed and looked down upon his best friend. What was left of him. It would be two days before Ira would be sent home. Two full days left to burn in hell. Jacob ground his teeth together.

“My mama,” Ira said. “It’s for my mama.”

Then he placed the gun between his lips and pulled the trigger. His head jerked backwards. Blood spattered the tent walls and the world ripped in half.

Hornets swarmed the tent. Jacob hit his knees. He screamed until the world went black, until hell rose up claimed them both.

Hewitt Town, OhioJuly 4th, 1863

Henry Clemmons opened his eyes to the ceiling spinning, in a bed that didn’t belong to him.

“Ah,” a voice said. Calm. Gentle. “You’re awake.”

On the other side of a doorway, Gabriel Hewitt stood beside a workbench, dressed in the same dark pants Henry saw him in the night before. His feet were bare, stained black. His dark hair, the color of ink, was brown with sawdust. A cigarette burned between the first fingers of his right hand, the scent of tobacco heavy in the air.

“Did you sleep at all?” Henry asked. He found his drawers tossed over a trunk at the end of the bed and pulled them on. He looked back to find Gabriel watching, a smirk on his lips.

Gabriel’s eyes were his most notable feature. Never before had Henry met a person, male or female, with eyes like his. They were the color of sky after a snowstorm. Fire burned in Gabriel’s eyes, sometimes bright as dawn and sometimes smoldering like embers, but always burning.

“The Welk baby died last night,” Gabriel said. He straightened and took a drink from the tin mug that seemed permanently affixed to the middle finger of his right hand. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and looked around the shop, as if he were surprised to see slants of daylight in the dark corners of the workshop.

Henry nodded. There were papers stacked on a desk across the room, stabbed through with a nail sticking up out of a chunk of wood. The desk was a veritable rat’s nest of orders, invoices, and ledger books, the making of a bustling business Gabriel ran, alone, since his uncle’s death. Henry once tried to make sense of the books on a cold February afternoon. He gave up after an hour.

“Pull yourself together and eat something for breakfast. The Widow up the way sent biscuits and I found some berries,” Gabriel said. Henry cleared his parched throat, as if just the thought of the widow’s dry, crumbling biscuits was enough to make swallowing a chore. Gabriel brought the old woman meat and provisions from town and she repaid his efforts with baked goods best suited as doorstops. “There’s goat’s milk as well, if you are so inclined. Should you add the milk to the biscuit, perhaps it will be more palatable.”

“You really want me to eat, don’t you?” Henry asked.

“Can’t have you wasting away.”

“What’s the catch?”

“The Welk baby died last night,” Gabriel said, again, “and we have to go get measurements.”

“We?” Henry asked. He looked around the shop, at the stacks of wood leaned against the wall, projects half finished. In the corner there were some long forgotten cupboards and cradles, partially hidden by cloth. A coffin leaned against the wall closest to the door, a simple cross carved into the lid with a brass nailed beneath it. All that was left was the engraving of the person’s name onto the plaque. Gabriel had finished the coffin at close to midnight the night before, just as Henry arrived.

A small lump formed in Henry’s throat. His palms went sweaty. We implied that they would go together to tend to the body of a recently deceased. Henry was no stranger to death- it lurked in the shadows of his mother’s home and on the worn quilt of the bed in the downstairs bedroom. In the dark recesses of Henry’s mind, Death was a specter that rose up from the mist to pull others down in the cold and worm filled earth. Death was sudden and unexpected even to people who knew they were on death’s doorstep. It made hands cold and joints stiff even during the heat of summer. Death fundamentally changed a human being from the moment it first stole across their eyes.

11 comments:

Hi Melissa. I was instantly excited by your title & the promise of a historical tale and it doesn’t disappoint. You capture the sense of place and time brilliantly.

I love your prose and there are numerous examples of lyrical descriptions and evocative images. Occasionally, you could be more ‘spare’ and tighten up your descriptions: His dark hair, the color of ink, was brown with sawdust. I think you could simply say: ‘His ink, dark hair was brown with sawdust.’

The last phrase of the first section also doesn’t read right – and probably just wants an AND between up and claimed: ‘until hell rose up claimed them both.’

I like the start of your description of death: ‘Henry was no stranger to death- it lurked in the shadows of his mother’s home and on the worn quilt of the bed in the downstairs bedroom. In the dark recesses of Henry’s mind, Death was a specter that rose up from the mist to pull others down in the cold and worm filled earth. Death was sudden and unexpected even to people who knew they were on death’s doorstep. It made hands cold and joints stiff even during the heat of summer. Death fundamentally changed a human being from the moment it first stole across their eyes.’

Two things I would suggest however: – one would be to shorten it – because I think you say too much and it loses impact. I might be tempted to simply stop after ‘worm filled earth.’ And also (a small point) I would omit the second use of the word bed, in the 1st sentence: eg ‘on the worn quilt of the bed in the downstairs room.’

These points are but niggles – the thing I would focus on is emphasising the stakes of the story. At the moment, it’s an interesting piece but I have no idea where it’s going…

Thank you,Ro! I see exactly what you are saying. In other workshops I have left the first section off and actually debated showing it, so this is the first time it's been read by people other than friends. Also sharp eye with the double use of bed. Thank you so much!

HHey Melissa–thanks for letting me read this.You get right to the point. As a reader, you have me rarin’ to go.I got a clear, strong picture of place and people. With the deep complex descriptions, I wonder if you want the reader to work so hard to stay with you in the first half of the story. There were moments of confusion, I believe because there was so much description between pieces of dialogue. I find that choice very reasonable. I would say that if you want to keep that style, consider doing everything you can to make the action clear and the people distinct. It may be that eliminating some pronouns would allow me the handles I need to hold onto the story. “One hand rested on the bed to keep his balance, in the place that Ira’s left leg should have lay. The right one was gone as well.”“One hand rested on the bed to keep his balance, in the place that Ira’s left leg should have lay. The right leg was gone as well.” is one example of how to keep me moving without having to overwork me.This was a gem. “Jacob Clemmons leaned his good ear towards Ira.” The fact that he has one good ear – and one not good – allows my mind to connect dots and color in the lines to create a full portrait, and that makes me a partner with you as we move forward as reader and writer.How Jacob feels about the Rebels is clear, you drew a strong reaction from me. I was all in with the suicide, I was set up to go. At the same time, after the hard work of reading your elaborate descriptions, it was very dramatic for all to be taken away. A definite, “Wow, what now?” moment. When Jacob and Ira both die, I did not understand what happened–how both were killed. “Jacob hit his knees” confused me.I thought you might consider some details. “the blood of a multitude of other soldiers lay across his lap” Multitude is a lot, a whole lot, are you risking some credibility from the get go? Also, as a reader, I sense Anna is important. But she was mentioned only in passing, so I’m left hanging a little there.A couple of times I think you may have a comma placed unnecessarily and created a barrier for me as a reader, although I haven’t consulted my Strunk.“A tattered blanket, stained with the blood of a multitude of other soldiers lay across his lap.”Perhaps consider , “A tattered blanket stained with the blood of a multitude of other soldiers lay across his lap.” Or “A tattered blanket, stained with the blood of a multitude At, “Hewitt Town, Ohio July 4th, 1863” I again like the logging of the date and place. I found this portion of your opening very enjoyable. Very compelling and thought provoking as well.The last two paragraphs were particularly powerful, but I think you could increase their impact by tenfold. “We implied that they would go together to tend to the body of a recently deceased.” I had to read it a couple times to realize “We” was the word “We”, not two people who together implied something. Also, “We” is a long way from the original “We?” I found the “we have to go get measurements.”, “We?” and finally “We implied” to communicate a great deal about the characters, but it was buried by the quantity of description placed between them. Is that description serving you well at this point and is it subtracting from the impact of your narrative? “Death was a spector --“ I’m wondering if you want to preach here or perhaps save this sentiment for us to discover later? I enjoyed this story openin –it read like twin short stories to me and I do love short stories. But, I’m not sure if I have discovered who is the main character. I am very happy stopping where you ended. I think if readers of this genre and style can identify the main character, they would definitely want to read on. I’m wondering if the first section is really part of the story. If Henry and Gabriel are your main characters and the tale begins on July 4th and not the longest day of the year, I would suggest the unthinkable: kill the suicide. Start with Hewitt Town. (Ouch.)Thanks for taking my comments. I enjoyed very much this portion of your story.Richard

Hello, Richard. Kill the suicide? *clutches pearls* Just kidding. I understand. I've been rolling this around in my mind for days which I know means I should take it out, but... you know how that goes. I can tighten things up. Thank you! you have given me plenty to think about, and I mean that in a very, very good way.

Wow, what an opening! I was hooked right away - but then I become a bit confused. I had to read it twice and maybe that’s an issue with me and not the text. I like the idea of what you’re doing in that beginning section: stating that Ira’s as good as dead now due to his wounds, etc. But when you state that “one minute prior, etc” you’re setting me up to see Ira die, or be aware of it, within that stated “one minute”; however, the story veers off. Don’t get me wrong, I really like the anecdote about how Jacob gets the pistol: that’s gritty and full of the horror of war. As a reader I start picturing that and wondering what happened there and who Jacob is. Clearly he’s full of vitriol, war has made him vengeful and even cruel. There’s lots to think about with Jacob – all of it compelling and very good.I had the impression, as a reader, that Jacob walked away and had to settle his mind, that time had passed – more than the “one minute prior” that you set me up for. Then Ira pulls the trigger, which was fantastic! I was moved and shocked – but I sort of thought he had already passed because of the time involved in moving from one moment to the next.That’s just a pacing problem that struck me – and maybe it’s just me! The rest of the story bangs along and is incredibly brutal and compelling. Some amazing details there: the missing leg, the one working ear, the hornets that buzz inside the tent. Just really good details there.

That second section there is really amazing and I don't have much to critique there. It works for me and the details are, again, compelling.

Hi Melissa -- I echo a lot of the comments of the others. I love historical fiction, although it was a bit gritty for me as a middle grade writer! :-) But I think teens would find it very compelling and want to read more. I,too, was a bit confused by the beginning. Great first line, but then it veered off into Jacob's backstory. I assume he got the Rebel gun earlier and was just remembering it while at Ira's bedside. Your strength definitely lies in your descriptions: "his face grizzled with a poor excuse for a beard, with fire red hair", "They were the color of sky after a snowstorm. Fire burned in Gabriel’s eyes, sometimes bright as dawn and sometimes smoldering like embers, but always burning." Also your description of Death at the end of the first section took my breath away.

Two settings -- two sets of characters, I'm intrigued as to how a connection will be made. On the second reading, I noticed that Jacob, currently in Virginia, is from Ohio, where Henry is, and they both have the same last name, so definitely a relation of some sort. But at this point, I'm not invested in any character yet. I'm guessing that Jacob and Henry are your main characters, but I don't know why I should care about them at this point. I also found it confusing that Henry woke up in a bed that wasn't his own -- where is he from? And it's now July, but he made reference to going over the books in February, which tells me he's been there before. So I definitely want to read more. And maybe I missed something, but I didn't get the sense that Jacob died, too. I felt that he was just grieving the suicide of his best friend, Ira, to the point where he just passed out.

Even though your descriptions are beautiful, I agree that less is probably more at the beginning, at least until we get a sense of where this is going. Introducing two settings in the first 1250 pages limits your plot, but I'm feeling that I want a bit more direction up front. Hope that makes sense.

Hello, Kathie! What you have said does make sense. The issue I am now running into with this is that these 1250 words do have a lot to do with the rest of the chapter. Everything comes to roost by the end of the first chapter, so to speak. I just can't very well add those words to this now. I do plan to tighten things up. Thank you for your thoughts!

You've received some great feedback so far and I concur with most of it. Your descriptions are amazing and visceral and I could see the scenes you were painting. The characters seem really intriguing, too. You’re a terrific writer.

I also wondered where the story was going and why the two Points of View. I realize that you want to give us enough in just 5 pages to get some feedback, but in a full-length novel featuring 2 POV’s – which is totally possible and plausible and done quite often – these first two chapters need to be developed more and longer. The reader needs to become invested in each person. But without knowing why the 2 POV’s we as critiquers can’t really speak to whether it’s necessary to have two different people as the main characters. Are you trying to show this terrible war experience juxtaposed against these two brothers in two different locations and how it affects them before they meet up again? That has potential to be a powerful story, it’s all in the execution, right? :-)

A couple places I was confused. Chapter 1: “The voices of a thousand souls seemed to speak . . . etc” for those two paragraphs. I had no idea whether these were actual people somewhere or some sort of magical vision, or spirits? If they are real people (soldiers??) outside make that much clearer and let the reader know what’s going on and why this is suddenly mentioned at this particular place in the story.

Nearer the end of Chapter 1: “Two full days left to burn in hell.” I assume this is metaphorical, we’re not really in hell, right? For a moment I wondered with the mention of souls. :-) But it sounds like something one of the characters would say out loud rather than write into the narration. Unless you clarified that the thought is about the war that is surrounding them and taking over their lives and sanity. So maybe something like, “Two days left to burn in this hell hole?” Or some such.

And then all of a sudden hornets are swarming, but I thought they were inside a tent or cabin so that was confusing. Where are the hornets coming from? Does Jacob die from the hornets? When it read that hell rose up to claim them, it was confusing as to what was actually happening. Is this literally or figuratively, or what? Give us more, it’s much too vague.

Chapter 2: When Henry Clemmons wakes up to the ceiling spinning I wasn’t sure whether the ceiling was actually spinning or the bed. This needs to be clarified more. If he’s groggy and his eyes are blurry and he’s disoriented, perhaps state that more clearly.Good luck with your rewrite and I’m really looking forward to reading it!

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